Why Men Don't Have Balls Anymore

So, in an attempt to bring myself some peace of mind, I've turned to the blogosphere ( yep, always a fabulous idea, I know...).

I read this article last night while I was up in a translating frenzy (let's just say I spent another five hours on robot dialogs. It's been one faaaaabulous party.).

I have seen #2 in action. I know MORE than a handful of Frenchmen who have been the victims of their own self imposed #2.

Let's add to this that I'm not numbers #3 or #4.

I'm brave enough to make the bold gestures and I have a tough enough shell to deal.

So I'm dealing away.

By writing on this blog.

Go figure.

OHM: One Hot Mess

 Oh, you are turbulent, life of mine. I am OHM: One Hot Mess. I can't handle it all right now, I'm afraid I'm reaching my upper limit. Between my personal and professional life, I'm reaching the breaking point. Let's explain:

  In the past two weeks, I have juggled not one, but four, jobs. I've continued to freelance for the boîte I worked for this summer. I'm now working on the editorial projects for one of their clients for two months one to two days a week. I'm enjoying it, really.

   Ok, this is all good and fine.

   Then I had an offer to do the editorial and communications for a start-up accelerator here. I agreed to do this part time on the days I was not doing said freelance editorial for other agency.

    Ok, good and fine. I got this. 

   This was promptly followed the same week by an intense, three hour, in your face, go go go go go interview with an amazing (get this) ROBOTICS company that needs an American native speaker to do all their English language dialog. They want me NOW. NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW. I'm translating their dialogs using my freelance status and they're working on my full time contract with a visa (cross your fingers).

     But this is France and I don't trust anything till contracts are signed. Willy rascals.

     Let's get back to this boîte for whom I've been doing freelance editorial. You know, the one I've been trying to get to HIRE ME for EIGHTEEN MONTHS. Their business development manager called me in a panic a week and a half ago to ask if I could come into the agency for two days to write a corporate brochure for the same client for whom I'm writing website content. I went in for two days straight to work on said brochure.

      Ok, ok, I got this, it's all good... HOLY PUMPERNICKEL ON A BALEINE WHALE WHY HAVEN'T YOU HIRED ME ALREADY!?

       So, I'm cozy by myself working in house at this company when low and behold, the head of HR comes and introduces herself for me to the first time. She proceeds to ask to speak with me about a major major major blogging project for  a massive French telecommunications company that wants an English speaker to write in English for six months full time...and they want to present my profile. But the blog gig is cool. SOOOO cool. So cool it could involve travel to *drumroll please* things like the Cannes film festival. HOLY MOTHER OF CHICKEN CLUCKING ROOSTERS IN A CANDY CANE FOREST! give it to me NOW! Give it to me yesterday! PRESENT MY PROFILE AND I GUARANTEE you you crazy mo-fos, I WILL WIN THIS contract for you and I WILL ROCK THE CRAP out of it!

     This job could also finally MEAN FINAL FULL TIME STATUS. OH MY BUCKWHEAT BARBECUED CHICKEN WAFFLE PANCAKES!

     HIRE ME PLEASE!

     I proceeded to get entirely overwhelmed and very stressed because the universe just seems to keep piling things on. I decided to turn down startup accelerator.

      (Let's not forget to mention that in the meanwhile I'm spending about 20 hours a week translating robot dialogs AND a huge four volume series of comic books for a company in LA that is happy with my work...)

      SOMEBODY SAVE ME. NOW.

     And that, my friends, is just the professional portion of this little hot mess of a life over here. The universe is also MAJORLY SCREWING with my heart strings.

      I mentioned about a week and a half ago the in the post "Oh, the irony" that This One's friend was clearly interested. Yep. No doubt now. Clearly. After two weeks of pursuing me, he finally asked me to hang and get a drink Friday night. So I said yes. We had planned to meet up around 10pm after his martial arts class.

      BUT WAIT FOR IT. WAIT FOR IT. GET THIS.

      Guess who called out of the EFFING blue to say he was in town and wanted to give me a book he'd bought for me and a *drumroll please* bottle of wine he'd picked out for me?

       YEAH. YOU GOT IT. THAT'S RIGHT. THE MOTHER EFFING WINE BARON. OF ALL PEOPLE! OF ALL PEOPLE!

        WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING UNIVERSE?

        Composure, composure. You got this Lindsay, you got this, keep your cool. 

        Naturally, far too nice and far too hard to anger and not one to stay angry (oh, why can't I be someone who just stays ANGRY!?) I said yes to seeing him. I told him I had plans so I couldn't chat for long, but I honestly had a good time seeing him. With my guard up. WAY WAY WAY UP.

        I don't know what he wanted, but if it was a hookup, he didn't get it. Not even a kiss. He got a bise. But I can't say that I didn't enjoy seeing him. I did. It's a lot more complicated than that, really. Honestly. BUT WHAT THE HELL IS IT WITH HIM COMING AND GOING AND COMING AND GOING? WTF!!!

         Then I was off to see This One's friend, whom I'll call Ambroise. Ambroise is a lovely gentleman. We have a lot in common. A lot of complicity. I had fun. I met his friends. We had great wine. He took me back to this place for more wine and wooing me with guitar. And you know, French smoothness. As in going in for the kiss. I kept it classy. I'm a classy lady. But he has clearly NO IDEA This One and I ever dated. EVER.

          Ambroise proceeds to tell me things about This One that I have never known. About how This One moved back to France for his Swedish GF, who proceeded to dump him. And break his heart. And how Ambroise didn't know why This One had been single for so long. How he didn't even approach women when they were out together.

         Naturally, again, I had only a handful of assumptions:

         1) Oh gawd. You're gay and don't know it!

         2) Oh sh*t. YOU JERKFACE. I was just a fling and you used me and were ashamed about it and so you never told your friends. crap crap crap crap crap.

          3) Oh poor guy. you had your heart ripped out of your chest and can't get over it. I feel so bad for you. No wonder you've been keeping me at arm's length with iron walls around your stone cold heart.

          4) I AM ABSOLUTELY LIVID YOU DIDN"T TELL YOUR FRIENDS LET ALONE THIS FRIEND BECAUSE NOW I AM IN A TERRIBLY AWKARD POSITION OF HAVING TO EITHER TELL THAT FRIEND OR YOU HAVING TO DO IT AFTER SAID FRIEND SAYS TO YOU HE'S SEEN ME AND KISSED ME AND IS POSSIBLY EXCITED ABOUT IT.

        So I did what I had to do. Mostly for me and my conscience screaming at me about how this did not feel right at all.

        Oh my I SO DO NOT THIS! THIS IS NOT OK, MY LIFE IS LIKE THE VOLCANO EXPLOSION AT POMPEII SPEWING DESTRUCTION EVERYWHERRRRRRE. 

       I texted This One saying I needed to talk to him. He asked if something was wrong. I was brutally, unbearably, terribly vulnerably honest. I said I didn't feel comfortable with his friend not knowing we had dated.

         This One gave me the go ahead to tell him and that if I wanted to date him I had a green light.

         Ok. I swallowed even harder and summed up a lot of *ahem* cahones I didn't know I had and said this:

          ¨Honestly, he's not the one I want...can you please just tell me right now if I should give up on you entirely?¨

           To which he responded essentially yes: we'd had our time and place.

           Band-aids hurt to rip off, but if you do it quick, it's over fast. It hurt. It sucked. My ego hurts a little bit. I'm definitely down about it. But at least I have an answer. And at least I don't feel like I'm going to cause a whole lot of mayhem between two really good friends.

            I just don't know what to feel about anything or anyone right now; I can barely handle my own life. I don't know what will happen at all between jobs and men and quite frankly, I don't know whether to scream and rip my hair out or crawl into a corner and bawl my eyes out.

            I don't know if I've ever lived anything this intense before. And this has just been the past two weeks. I'm run absolutely ragged and exhausted. I'm so busy I can barely sleep enough right now. Can it all just settled down, please universe?

             (Did I mention that AMBROISE works for the crazy company with the blog deal and that if I got the blog deal I'd be working in the same office as him? OH LORD.)

              I'm so stressed and so high strung and so worked up right now I can't decide whether to punch something or coil into the fetal position. I kinda wanna do both.

            I am OHM: One Hot Mess.

There will be time, there will be time...

      

          My thoughts are larger than the heavens. They have my body leaping out of itself, bursting forth as do the stars, a return to the dust. Today the sun rose and the sun set. In a city named Paris I wandered streets and tasted clementines in cold markets and sipped coffee as somewhere, by the circular orb and arc of the heavens, it all culminated in this moment and thought. 

*  *  *

           This moment is but an instant in a suite of instants. 

           Like so many who have preceded me here on this hollow ground, Lutetia, I was and am your artist, you sacred catalyst. More and more the world around me grows silent and I need the quiet so. 

          My singular obsession calls unto me like the sirens of the Greeks. 

*  *  * 

         I sing of clocks. Lights go out. I am an artist. I cannot be saved. Neither can it. I become more Gallic by the day.  Tides I've tried to swim against. Oh, I beg. And plead. 

         Memory persists. 

*  *  *

        That time exists, I am not sure. That it does not exist, I am not sure either. Of what am I sure: that it has me in a head spin, the sort of existential acid trip that winds me up and drops me from the upper stratosphere of my own incredulousness. 

        I suppose you could say this trip started long ago, and where it ends, or shall end, I do not know, nor may I ever. You may all thank Paul Ricoeur for that. 

        Of what else am I sure? That there exists a clear, indisputable, and terribly hard to decipher--but oh, at last, I have done it!--difference in American and French perceptions of time. 

                                                                                           *  *  *

          The ligne de faille which made it all evident to me, I suppose, has been my struggle to understand just where in the world This One was coming from when we chatted weeks ago. Some of the things he said, though he said them in English, baffled me. 

           ¨ I can't give you what you want right now. But I still want to see you. Maybe I'll regret this decision in two months and be banging on your door. Who knows? You're still here until at least next November, nothing has really changed, but I can't give you more right now. And I can't deal with the pressure of feeling like you expect more from me.¨

           He mentioned not going about things the American way, that he didn't want to stop seeing me. The two seemed like a deep and brutal paradox, one in which the underlying presupposition is that if he couldn't be with me, I would not want to continue to see him anymore...which I admittedly agree is fairly true of American dating culture. 

           But the door did not seem fully closed on romantic involvement either. Why would he spring so far ahead into the future? Why the insistence on the now and the far ahead? 

            This One was angry with me because I had forced him to play his cards. He was upset because I had done things the American way.  ¨You're in France,¨ he insisted. ¨You have to play by French rules.¨

            I countered that while I understood where he was coming from, while we were both bilingual, his reactions would never be knee jerk American ones, and that mine would never be knee jerk French ones. That there would always exist a couche culturelle. 

             What was I missing? 

           And then, like Athena from the head of Zeus, epiphany sprang. 

                                                                                           *  *  * 

           The French manner of courtship differs from the American one because of a radically different underlying perception of and subjective relationship to time. The evidence is myriad and clearer than Swarovski now, but it took me three years to grasp the weight of it all; I see it in our languages, in our relationship to space and distance, and in the religious backbones of our larger cultures. 

            In language, it goes to the very root of the verbal system. If languages are systems that shape our cognition, in the way we structure and perceive the empirical world, then it makes sense that a verb system would structure the way we experience the world and its dimensions. English verbs are based upon Germanic systems without much inflection. Our tenses (the very facet of a verb that locates a situation in time)  and our aspect (the part of a verb that denotes how an action relates to the flow of time) do not align. 

           French, suffice it to say, is Latinate, and not Germanic. 

           With that in mind, it is not surprising that our discourses around time differ so. For the American, time is a precious resource, itself a Master to whom we are made to heel. On birth, we receive a set quantity of this commodity and we chose how we use, or spend, it. 

            My father used to say that if you don't have time, you make time. Time is money. Don't waste your time.  The American prizes punctuality. 

             Time heals everything. 

             Only time will tell. 

             For the American, it is time who has the agency, and not he. 

            The French find this absolutely ridiculous. They complain that Americans are ruled by their watches and find this disdainful. For the French, man is the Master and Time is the servant and what will be will be. Life is complex; if you spot a friend or a family member on the way to an appointment, it is surely of greater importance to chat with said person than to rush to an arbitrary deadline! 

            Why then are Americans so insistent upon seemingly arbitrary deadlines and definitions, of defining limits and imposed

            It has everything to do with our cultural geography and space. The land and the terroir cannot be excluded from this reflexion. It really is that simple. In a nutshell: America is much bigger than France. The American country spreads across three time zones. If we do not impose deadlines, or boundaries, upon ourselves, we would in a sense glide forever through what Jean Baudrillard calls our primitive desert. We impose deadlines because we cannot function otherwise, us Americans: there is no limit if we do not.

             France has not this problem. A country 1/18th the size of America has a more human scale. There is no fear of the limitless because no matter how far one may go on French soil, within several hours, one hits the limit of the sea. Space-time imposes its limits much more quickly on the French psyche, which is safely bound the borders of its hexagon. On such a small scale, the French dominate Time. So why worry? Time is not the Master, Time is the servant. And what will be will be.

              Even Proust implies that Time is the servant: the title of his masterpiece, In Search of Lost Time, implies that the narrator Marcel is the Master who, with personal agency, has lost his own time and is actively looking for it. And the French actively look for their time. Ricoeur speaks of the triple present and of the present of the past. In France, the present of the past is everywhere: how many Parisian structures have plaques commemorating someone's birth or death transfixed to their walls?

              The capstone for me is the religious underpinning. At the base of it all, America is a Protestant nation and France a Catholic. And religion has much to do with what are conceived as the Six Times Zones that human beings live in, which also has a correlation to geographical space. Protestants tend to be what Phillip Zimbardo calls Future Oriented: they work rather than play because working is a way succeed and to demonstrate that you are God's chosen people, and Protestant nations have higher GNPs because of this. Conversely, Catholic nations tend to be part of the Global South, and the closer one is the Equator, the less one has an impression of seasonal, and hence cyclical, time change. Time becomes homogenized and thus seems to slow. There exists less pressure to produce as time seems longer, more available, with less of a deadline.

              I do not mean to say that if one is Protestant one is a workaholic and if one is Catholic, one is lazy, nor do I intend to say that every person in America is Protestant and every person in France Catholic, but more that these are the large scale, historical cultural cradles from which the two nations have risen, and to deny the effect that have had on those cultures and perceptions of time would be foolhardy.

                                                                                          *  *  * 

              What happened between This One and I is nothing more than a gigantic clash of cultural misunderstanding. 

              As the American, I wanted to impose the limits and boundaries, because I felt enough time had elapsed in order for me to define what we were; I needed to define it and wrestle it so that it would not stretch out indefinitely. I was the Servant asking Time to impose a definition on what we were. 

             He was the Frenchman with the understanding that relationships evolve naturally and as they are supposed to, so there is no need to impose upon them. As he said it, ¨there are no rules,¨ alluding to the American propensity for dating codes and procedures ( you have to wait three days to call, what?). 

            As the American, I interpreted his statement of ¨I can't give you what you want right now,¨ as ¨I am not interested enough in you to seriously date you and this is my way of letting you down.¨ I interpreted it this way because my culture teaches me that if a man truly wants to be with me, he will, and if not, he's just not that into me. I explained this to a French male friend, who then replied that it seemed like ¨an easy way to rip the bandaid off and move on,¨ instead of confronting much more nuanced and complex circumstances. The way of making things black or white in the way that Americans do instead of dealing with the ambiguity of grey area, because culturally we like black or white, heaven or hell, instead of black, grey, white, or heaven, purgatory, and hell. 

             For the Frenchman, ¨I can't give you what you want right now,¨  literally means ¨I cannot give you what you want right now, I am not available in the way you want me to be right this second,¨ with the underlying implication that ¨but that doesn't mean it might not work at another moment.¨

            Because truly, the French are more fluid about time and relationships: I'm not available now for whatever reason ( I'm with another person, I have too much going on in my life, I need to figure a, b and c out before...) but it doesn't mean I like you any less, and it doesn't mean that life permitting, we might not work later.  Hence, his allusion to my being here until at least November of 2014. 

             I am not making excuses and I won't not see other people if that's what happens. I am simply attempting to understand, in a more nuanced way, the cultural forces at play. 

                                                                                    *  *  * 

            Will I sit away pining? Will I play the stranded princess? No. Things will happen the way they are meant to happen. And while this has been tough, I have a profound understanding and way of interpreting all these cultural subtleties. If it's the only thing I get out of the thing that happened between This One and me, then it was worth it. 



             Que sera sera. 

            

          

Oh, the irony...

  The pace of life has me overwhelmed right now. It's a Friday night and I willfully admit I am camped out in my studio, avoiding the buckets and buckets of rain I hear tumbling down from the Parisian night sky. Tonight I am cuddled with my narratology books and my blankets and--as my sixth grade teacher would have it--enough work to choke an elephant.

    Four volumes of comic book translations for a freelance project, commissioned by a publishing house in LA.

    An entire masters thesis. A fiction theory course.

    Another freelance editorial gig for this damn boîte in the 10th that just can't seem to figure out, after eighteen months, if it wants to hire me.

    A country that alternately DOES and DOES NOT want me here.

    Another editorial gig starting on Monday for a startup accelerator that wants me to handle all of their press...from web to press relations to everything in between...deep breath.

     A non-fiction memoir to write as a personal project for fam.

     And enough Frenchmen popping out of the woodwork to have me shriveling back into my cave of solitude.

*  *  * 

      Oh, the irony. It's about all I can say about my life right now. On Tuesday I went to the Berkeley Club of France's fall reception, and even though This One had been texting me that day and emailing me, he didn't mention a word about going. Knowing him, I figured he'd be too busy. 

       Lo and behold, who shows up? This One. He bises me hello tout d'un coup, out of the blue, while I'm making conversation with other people. 

        I'd volunteered to help run the show, so I was detained checking people in. I'd set my purse next to him on a chair, but a friend of his showed up and displaced it by the time I rejoined them for the lecture. He then spends the rest of this talk, on the other side of his friend, who is the buffer between us, fidgeting and checking his phone, texting, and what seems to be stealing glances at me. 

         At one point, I turn my head to the right and catch him face on, and he pops a big grin and turns back to his phone. 

          I start chat whispering with his friend, who figures out that I'm American. 

         Cocktail hour ensues. 

         Cocktail hour ensues and friend is avidly chatting me up while This One is cornered by a bore from the Ecole Normale. Friend asks me for my number. Friend gets my number. 

          This One leaves with a dash rather suddenly, rather early, exclaiming loudly enough for me and for his friend to hear, ¨On s'appelle, Lins!¨

           *  *  *

           Ô, the irony is that I don't want your friend calling me, you fool. Oh, the irony is that when you had your talk with me weeks and weeks ago when you proclaimed you didn't have the time to give me what I wanted, you said that maybe in two months time you'd regret it and be pounding on my door. 

            Oh the irony is that I do not know that you regret it, I suspect it, but I think you have far too much pride to ever explicitly announce this. 

             Oh the irony is that the second I start to really detach from you, I have Frenchies coming at me from every angle: your friend, the friend of another friend I met last weekend while out. The list goes on. 

             The irony of it all is that I do not want them, all I really want is you. But such is life. 

             And while I wish you would just figure your shit out, I cannot and will not sit around like a stranded princess waiting for you, because real men know what they want and they go for it, and the tough reality is that you did not go for me, for whatever reason that may be. 

             Oh, the i-ron-y....

              

The Avocado Theory

  Who believes in this? 

   As a California native....I do!

Conversations, Periods, Apostrophes and Ending Things

     My writing, like my life, has been here and there and everywhere, in one messy jumble. I can't keep up with it all. Sometimes I write, and sometimes I don't. Sometimes I don't have time to write.

(That's a lie. You have time for anything until you're six feet under, and until then it's about making the time. Accept that as my small apology for coping out and not making the time to write).

       But the difference between writing and life is that in writing, especially fiction, you have to know your ending. In most good story work, you know your ending before you know or craft anything else. You build everything up until that ending...whereas in dating, there is no such thing.

       So what happens when you need to put an Ending on something that isn't even really a Thing? What if what you need to figure out how to end doesn't have much of a beginning either? What if it floats around in this culture of ambiguity we call dating in the twenty-first century?

         Relationships, I have come to believe, are like conversations...and good relationships are like good conversations: interesting and forthcoming, full of respect for the other person involved, and above all, fierce and transparent.

          But our culture of conversation is changing. We let text messages fall through the cracks, leave the other person hanging. Texts come out of no where at any time from anyone at any point, sometimes without so much as a hello and not always so much as a goodbye, or any sort of indicator that the conversation is over, rather the implication that it is....the same can be said of any instant messaging device on the web. People sign off chat rooms or on Facebook leaving the other party dangling. Even I am guilty. Even I walk away from my computer and leave conversations unfinished. Hanging. Ambiguous.

             Is our culture of conversation becoming our culture of dating?

             In the past few weeks, I have felt like things with This One were left hanging like a text message. I have wondered if I should just go for a Phase Out and slowly back away and let things end that way, because he sure does seem to like my attention but not seem to really want to give a lot in return. I've also asked myself if I should axe it directly, go for the fearless and fierce and say ¨Look, it's been nice getting to know you, but I'm going to do my own thing. Take care!¨

              But that doesn't seem quite right either.

              Every time I go for the Phase Out, he pops back up.

              Don't get me wrong. I know what I'm worth. If he doesn't want to abide by my rules and expectations (news flash: asking to see someone for more than two hours a week after you've been dating for three months does not make a girl high maintenance), then he can ship out.

               He doesn't quite seem to want to do that either. The Shipping Out part, that is. In fact, he doesn't seem to know just what he wants. And it's not making my job of doing that any easier.

               I can't figure out if this conversation has a period at the end of it (unlikely), or if there's an apostrophe, and if there is one, just how things should End.

   

Light Bulb

     It's only taken me three years...but I got it. If I'm gonna succeed at this dating thing in this country, I have to play by France's rules.

     This made it all clear as CRYSTAL. 

American Rules Do Not Apply Here

            It has been a sleepless week. Between stressing over job stuff, stressing about the future, and stressing about not being able to run ( which is my stress reliever ), things have been a stress mess. Add to this the very awkward render-vous I had with This One last weekend, which added to my stress mess.

            We'd met up for brunch at a placed called H.A.N.D. near the Comédie Française and I was feeling the pull. The slow, backing up, distancing, about to bolt in the other direction pull. Instead of kissing me as he usually did he didn't even bise me. The date felt more platonic and stiff than it ever has, and then he asked me if it would be ok if he left the Tuileries, where we were stationed, because he was meeting a buddy to run at 5. I said sure.

              He walked me home and pecked me emotionlessly then left.

              I didn't know where I'd gone wrong.

              *  *  * 

             As he'd walked me home that afternoon, we'd passed the Musée d'Orsay and I'd mentioned wanting to go there with me sometime. I shot him an email on Monday to give him the schedule of all Parisian museums open at night, the days and times.  

             When he shot me a message back saying he was busy this week, he was sorry, I'd had it. Since the start of September, he'd been playing the busy game with me and I was pissed. 

             I finally blew a gasket on him on Tuesday when I told him I needed to talk to him. I then explained that if he wasn't going to give me the time of day, we wouldn't work, that I couldn't start a relationship without getting to know someone, and how did he expect me to get to know him if I didn't spend time with him? 

             He asked to talk to me face to face on Friday evening. 

           *  *  * 

           Near dusk on the avenue de Breteuil, we met up to chat. I'd been on a roller coaster all week...from lividly angry to sad back to pissed and all over and in between. I asked how his week went. 

            He signed his contract. 

            Teaching was good. 

            But he had to be honest and open with me in saying that he understood why I wanted more, why it was normal after three months to want more in a relationship from him, but that he's just not in a position to do it right now. 

            Excuse or not? 

            He still wants to see me, but doesn't want to lie and promise me more when I clearly want more and deserve more. 

             But in true Lindsay fashion, I don't much want to see anyone else. I explained to him that I think it would be stupid to just drop this thing instead of rolling with the punches and seeing what happens, though I told him very clearly that I know if I do this I run the risk of getting hurt.

              ¨I was going to get there, but you forced me to play my hand,¨ he said. 

              ¨I forced it because if I didn't know what it was and didn't have the ability to know what it was and make my own choice depending, I know I'll get hurt.¨

               He then went off about how in France, ambiguity is more tolerated...it's not like America where we need to know, after a certain period of time, black or white, what ¨this thing is.¨ I replied that while I know this, while I respect it and know it about his culture, that I am--and as hard as I might ever fight not to be--at the core, due to my childhood, my education, my parents, my principles, everything that makes me me--still in many ways American. 

               But American rules don't apply here. 

              I know what I deserve and I know what I'm worth. (All I can hear, Frank, is your voice telling me not to ever settle or sell myself for bargain basement price.). But what if the one person I think might actually finally deserve me is being honest and open and truly not an asshole about his ability to make a more serious commitment right now? 

               American rules don't apply here. 

               In retrospect, I can see how desperately I have tried to make them apply: when I returned from  the islands and nannying last summer, E said to me almost nearly the same thing.

                ¨I like you, I want to keep seeing you, but there's another person, and it's not fair to you...¨

                Then I did the American thing, told him I needed things black or white, and with the nod of a head and a few words from his mouth, things were settled. 

                 I think about FWB and how things were so ambiguous for so long and how I, so much head over heels for him and falling so, so terribly hard, came on too strong, forced his hand...to the point where he ended things. 

                 ¨You want more and you deserve someone here in Paris, who can give you the time...I can't.¨

                 You were much kinder hearted and fairer than I thought you at the time, FWB. I did not give you the credit, did not stop to think that perhaps this ambiguity thing is cultural, that American rules do not apply here. 

                  Then there's This One: ¨ Nothing has changed between you and I. I still like you, I still want to see you, I'm still attached to you. But there are days I miss you and then there are days I'm so stressed that I can't even think of missing you. If you want more and you need more in a relationship right now, you'll have to find it elsewhere. I should have told you this sooner. I was going to tell you this weekend but you weren't patient enough to let me get there....this doesn't mean we're over, it just means we have to roll with the punches and see where this goes.¨

                   I told him that for me, that would be running a risk. I told him why. I told him why I was so afraid of it and terrified to give him the chance. ( And I can hear you Frank telling me he doesn't perhaps deserve the chance ). 

                   This One told me I freaked him out. I told him why he freaked me out. Then I thought about how maybe I was coming on too strong. Goddam it, why do I do this? ( Yes, Natalie and Bill. I probs was / am coming on strong. But I've picked it up quicker this time and am nipping it fast. And with all do respect, I've made some improvements: no where near as fast as with FWB!) 

                    ¨ You have to understand, you're in France. American rules don't apply here. Things are not cut and dry. Just because I didn't tell you I wanted to see you again doesn't mean I don't want to see you again. I do. ¨ He added. 

                     American rules don't apply here. 

                     And this is the part where I look back on every thing I have done this past year in this particular realm of my life and wonder how in the world I f*cked it up by trying to apply American rules and American woman know-how. 

                      Is it too late to do a 180? Put the car in reverse and just go? 

                      That whole American thing of ¨if he doesn't try and see you all the time he's just not that into you¨ doesn't work. Out the door, out of the question. 

                       There is no rulebook, he added. 

                       Which is both liberating and terrifying. 

                       American rules don't apply here.

                       ¨ I'm sorry I freaked you out. 

                       So I figured I'll leave him be. I'll see him again if he wants to, with no particular effort made to see him. I'll give him his space. If I meet other people, it won't stop me from seeing them. 

And then in tradition French way, in traditional French fashion, maybe he'll come running.

                       But if he doesn't, I won't be heartbroken. I'm stronger than this. 

                       I texted him after. Said I was sorry for the misunderstanding and glad things were clear now, because all I need is honesty and clarity so I can make my decisions with as much information at hand as possible. He too said he was relieved to have had the convo, that it was heavy to keep things blurry between us.

                         I responded with: ¨ I don't want things to be heavy, I want to have fun with you...like this summer. I really liked that, and I really like you. It's that simple. You know where to find me...bonne soirée.¨

                           Because in all reality, it is that simple. Boy likes girl, girl likes boy. Things will evolve as they evolve, in their own way and in their own manner. Why apply an arbitrary set of rules to different stages and places and whatever you may have its as they evolve on their own organically?

                            The American rules, at least, don't apply here.

                            It's only taken me three years of being in this country to figure that one out.


     

                       

                      

Of Landlords and Love Lives

      On my way home from work this Wednesday, Carrefour sack brimming over with groceries, I was marching down the rue du Bac when I ran across my landlord. He promptly asked me about an electrical issue I'd been having and mentioned that he'd stop by again to take care of it. Out of the blue added:

      ¨Your chéri must be gentil.¨ Gentil meaning a hard-to-translate, special French brand mixture of nice, kind, and sweet.

      ¨Why?¨ Perplexed, I asked.

      ¨Because that smile looks good on you,¨ he stated, swiftly turned the corner, and vanished.

*  *  * 

        France is the kind of country you can have discussions with your landlord about your love life. This landlord likes to ask, not in a pesky way, but in that curious, paternal ¨you are a good looking foreign girl with near impeccable French, how have you not been swept up by a Frenchman yet?¨ sort of manner.

        He knew about FWB, not in all the grim details, but in the basic contours of how that went, and every now and then, convinced the FWB would figure out his mistake and return to me, would ask me about him.

        When I stopped into his shop several weeks ago, he naturally asked about the Baron and to which I happily replied that there was someone new. He then lovingly dispatched a list of advice, which included:

          1) Take it slow, there is no rush, see where it goes
          2) do not ever become super close to the mother of your boyfriend, as French mothers are potential relationship wreckers; achieve this by always vous-voying the parents of said boyfriend.
          3) if down the road you get invited to a weekly family lunch on Sundays or what have you, say that you are miraculously and unfortunately always ¨busy from 12pm to 9pm on Sundays on a permanent basis.¨

         He then shared with me that when he flew to Réunion with his now wife to meet her parents, he wasn't paying attention and was so nervous that, suitcase in hand and stepping forward to shake hands with his future father-in-law, he walked straight into the pool.

          He ended his words of wisdom with one piece of advice that I am holding at the top of my thoughts as much as I can: that while men and women are truly from different planets, what can and does mess up a relationship are not the true workings of said relationship, but how we think, in our own little heads, what skewed visions we have, about the workings of the relationship and the other person.

           I am tremendously guilty of this.

*  *  * 

           This Thing I have with This One is a slow, steady burn. Not combustible, not explosive, not dramatic. I like it this way. But I know that deep down in my gut I am guilty of gargantuan fear, the type of fear that comes with knowing that what you have is good--quite good--and the fear of losing that, of having it dematerialize right before your very eyes.

           Aptly, This One and I were sitting in the Tuileries yesterday discussing fear when he stole one of my own life philosophies right out of my very mind. He said that we should do things that scare us as often as possible because it is only then that we are living.

           There is a sort of complicity between our visions of life, a fellow nerdiness between us that makes me smile and laugh, but also, in all honesty, makes me go OH SHIT. 

           Oh SHIT because the more I learn about him and the more I glimpse his values and his personality, the more I see compatibilities between us. And this time I am not blinded by Charlotte York style infatuation.

           Naturally, this makes me want to dive for cover and put on the iron shield of armor to protect my vulnerabilities. So I go into EJECT mode.

            EJECT mode is sabotage mode. It's the mode where I try to find any and everything to hit the breaks and hit the eject button, try to find anything wrong so I can exit This Thing fast and save my heart from any potential heartbreak.

             For example, a week ago, I was overwrought because This One had said he was quite busy during the week working on a consulting contract and had some stuff with friends and wouldn't be able to see me during the week. Then once during the week he mentioned he didn't know when he'd be able to see me again the next week. He then dropped a bit off the face of the planet, but justly so....the deal he's working on is rather of the life changing scale.

              Again, quite naturally, I went to the dark side and started going to the dark place of ¨ok, well if you don't have time to spend with me, why the HELL are you dating me?¨ I texted him later that week and told him that I wanted to talk. He said he'd call that night. He didn't call. I texted and said if he tried to call I'd be out with friends to dinner and that if he wanted to see me during the weekend he'd need to tell me or I'd make plans. He told me to save Saturday afternoon.

               Saturday afternoon, he showed up to my place looking like bloody hell. Hadn't slept, hadn't eaten, been so worked up over his contract that he'd not taken care of himself all week. Looked like he was about to keel over.

               It was then that I realized that dropping off the face of the planet had nothing to do with me and everything to do with his anxiety and his way of coping. He elaborated upon this. I told him why I was frustrated and explained my logic of ¨if you don't have time, why date me?¨ and he apologized and hugged me. He said that it was just how he handles things and I told him ¨thats fine, but I don't know you well enough yet to know that. Now I do.¨ He then planted a set of kisses on my forehead and asked me to forgive him and said that he knew he shouldn't cut me off completely because I'm his 'lady', even if he is under duress.

              So in the blink of a two minute span I went from thinking I'd have to end it with him because he didn't have the time for a girlfriend to cuddling and giving him a head massage and telling him he could nap on my shoulder if he needed to sleep and it was ok if we didn't do anything else because he needed to rest.

                Oh lord, my mental Eject Button at its finest trying to sabotage the shit out of everything as a protective mechanism as per usual. There are beasts in my head to be reckoned with.

*  *  * 

                 At least through the small hiccups we have had, our communication is good. We're very open and to the point with one another. And it makes me feel like the bond we are growing is something worthwhile.

                 Very, very worthwhile.

                 I'll post about him and it when I find it appropriate, but I again admit that there is something special about this one, and I'd like to keep a lot of it to myself for now, and perhaps indefinitely, but when the need to philosophically muse about it strikes me, I will.

                 Know that I'm happy and at peace and all is well.

                On a final note, what he doesn't know and what I've been dying to tell him is this:

                I feel like I'm on one truly kick-ass super team whenever we're together.

                And I can truly smile about that.

Pinch Me, Please

     Pinch me, please, universe. I have gone silent and into the calm, deeply unnerving yet oh so steady ocean of starting to fall for This One.

      Is this all a dream?

      If I have fallen behind on writing about it I admit here that it's because I do not want to. This is going so well *fingers crossed* that I cannot bear to write about it; I'm afraid that by writing about it, I'll jinx it or break it and I don't know if I could ever forgive myself for that. What we have is by leaps and bounds so different, and wonderfully so, than anything I have ever experienced, that I dare not share so many of the personal details I have before on this blog with other relationships.

      Let's just say that since I've returned from Bretagne we've seen each other a whole lot. It's going so, so incredibly well that we're basically insta-coupled. And I don't mind that for a second.

       He's communicative and honest and open and it feel natural. We feel natural.

       ¨On est bien ensemble,¨ he said the other night. We're good together. He added that we're getting quite good at this us thing. He then laughed and pointed out that our anniversary is the 4th of July.

        What could be better for an Ameriphile dating an American girl?

        I couldn't help but smile. It's all I have been doing. Walking the streets of Paris like a blindly smiling idiote, pure proof that I belong not to the realm of weeping, morose Parisians whose sole régime is bonjour tristesse but that à la base I will always be Californienne.

         So if I do not write anything on here about This One, assume it is because This One seems too good to be true, and it's going so well, so so well, that it scares me the way handling antique china vases would scare me: it's so beautiful and yet seems so fragile that I can't bear to handle it.

          It's still early. We will see.

          Somebody pinch me please.
         

The Uphill Battle

        After three weeks in Bretagne, I leave for Paris tomorrow. My séjour here has been lovely, but today it ended in a rain storm, whose suite has been a pastel yellow sky, small trains of clouds splicing the ocean colored globe above.

          I have a lot on my mind.

         This One and I have been texting and I cannot wait to get back to see him, though he's made it more than clear I'm under examination as to determine whether or not I am a ¨little girl¨. I know I'm literally and figuratively not one, but this has wracked my nerves a bit. A remise en question if you will. I, in return, have made it clear he's under examination to determine whether or not he is a ¨capricious man¨ as I don't deal with those either. I'm sticking to my guns about this being a two way street; it is just only I that have to meet standards, it's him too, and I'd prefer we don't waste one another's time.

          Then there's the stress about financing and finishing this master and staying in France.

          Sometimes I ask myself what the hell I am doing with my life. Sometimes I think that returning ¨home¨ to the US is the answer to all my worries. Sometimes in the midst of all the suffering that fighting to stay here requires, I ask myself why I choose to fight the uphill battles, pick the hardest things I can find to do, want to pack the suitcases and hit the plane and run. But it is not that simple, and at this point, it is not just about the country, it is about this génération flottante and the tossing, churning current into which we are thrown.

          Je trouvais pas mon chemin, trop de brume. 

          Against the current I go.

Sparks Fly

Ten days ago, which is more than a bit tardy for the likes of my blog posting, was America’s birthday.  It also happened to be my first ever 4th of July date. The gentleman I met at the Berkeley Club of France mixer, whom I am going to just call This One, as in oh-lord-here-we-go-again-what-the-hell-am-I-doing-you-are-probably-going-to-break-my-heart-like-every-other-person, emailed me and we set up dinner to celebrate ¨my¨ country’s independence.

He’d been adorably emailing me from work all day and so our conversation was a back and forth volley of verbal sparring, the kind I love the best, a sort of mental ping pong that keeps me on my toes and far from bored.

Downstairs at my desk at work, I opened an email and couldn’t help but turn to my work colleague, M and grin wide.

¨If I didn’t know any better,¨ I laughed out loud, ¨I’d say this one is interested.¨

And then I was so excited about the damn date I proceeded to sleep like crap the night before.  Crashed at one am, only to toss and turn until 3:30. Woke up for a brief half hour to work, then laid back down from 4 to 6. Up  for good at 7:30. Caffeinated like mad all day, took a disco nap from 5:30 to 6:30, and then attempted to make myself look smoking hot, which apparently I succeeded in because the night ended with This One telling me that he’d been dying to kiss me the first five minutes of our date. Oh, I am a sly little coquine...

*  *  *

The first five minutes of that date go a little something like this: I show up to a restaurant and there he is sitting waiting after I text him to tell him I’m a few metro stops away.

¨It’s ok, you’re Parisian now, always 15 minutes late!¨ He texted jokingly. 

¨No, not 15, I promise!¨

So I arrive and he’s nonchalantly sipping an American beer and I’m a tad nervous but excited to have fun.

And discussion begins. But This One doesn’t bore me.  This One is quite fun.  And I get the distinct impression he’s feeling me out and playing with him, making sure I fit a category of criteria, not in a superficial sort of way, but that he’s trying to decipher me to know if I’m worth the chase. I can’t tell if this is some sort of Parisian séducteur par excellence game, but he is playing for sure.

I play right back.

*  *  *

This One is a bit older than I am, but I prefer that. After dinner, over drinks, he makes it clear how frank he is. Between the laughing and the playing are some things I think he is more serious about, though he seems to veil them.

¨Why don’t you have a boyfriend?¨ He inquires. Part of this is curiosity, part of it is, I am sure, trying to make sure I’m not psychotic. I explain what I’ve spent the last two years of my life doing, I explain that I’ve just finished in May, that I had no real time to date, I explain that I am a picky b*tch when it comes to gentlemen and that I prefer not to waste my time.

¨I like that phrase,¨ he laughs. Then proceeds to explain that he is much the same, that he knows what he wants and knows it when he sees it. This surely rings a bell with me.

Time to turn the tables: ¨Why don’t you have a girlfriend?¨

He explains he did when he returned, they dated for a while, but he figured out fast that she wasn’t what he was looking for, she wasn’t The One for This One and so he broke it off, though he surely gave her the benefit of the doubt.

I cannot tell what his motivations are,  because given his age he could surely just be dating to date, but I don’t quite sense that either. Behind the smoke screen of this game we are playing, behind the half joking poker face, I think, is a more serious agenda. It's too early to tell. 

¨It’s ok,¨ he laughs at certain points. ¨Next time we’ll do this and this…¨ and rattles off a list of things I need to do in Paris.

¨Oh, so there’s going to be a next time?¨ I tease.  This throws him off. 

¨Will there be?¨ he pauses and gives me a coy grin. 

¨I don’t know yet, we haven’t reached the end of this time yet.¨ I smirk. 

*  *  *

In some small, stupid way I am afraid that by writing this, I am dooming this to fail. Call it a minor superstition, but this is why I’ve held off writing about This One for a bit after our date.  There is something about This One I want to keep to myself anyway, something about him I do not want to make blog fodder, so if I am a little more vague than usual, forgive me.

It’s always at the start of something that you wonder how it will finish, a natural human curiosity, if you will…and any good storyteller will always know the punch line before she gets there. This is the part that differentiates my blog writings from being my version of real life and being no more than an invented tall tale.

Over those drinks though This One asks me about the end of our evening. He stares at me across the table and says one question that forces me to pause and think strategically. We are throwing one another these complex volleys of human intention and strategizing our way through the evening.

¨ So Lindsay, tell me…how is tonight going to end?¨

I pause.

¨Well, I think you’re going to walk me home. I think you’re going to try and kiss me, and then I think I’m going to tell you goodnight.¨

*  *  *

Which is more or less what happens. He makes me take his arm and we walk from near the Opéra across the Seine to my place. By the end he is holding my hand and as we traverse the bridge leading from the Louvre to the rue du Bac, we see the lights glimmer like flakes of gold on the rippling surface of the river.

¨Beautiful night, beautiful city, and a man standing next to you, what more could you want?¨ He asks with a smile.

¨Nothing,¨ I say. And I truly mean it.

This One walks me to my door, without hesitation kisses me, lingers for a while. Tells me to make him leave when I need to make him leave, but that he really wants to see me again.

¨I really want to see you again, too.¨ We kiss one more time, and then not long after, I send him on his way.

*  *  *

Now the panic and the doubts set in: what if he really is just playing with me? What if he says he wants to see me again but really doesn’t? How can I be sure he isn’t going to see ten other girls at the same time, that this is not a Parisian séducteur toying with me? Already his age would be a step in the opposite direction, but I can’t yet gauge what his motives are.

Oh lord, I want nothing more than to run in the other direction as fast as I can and to find every excuse to drop this right now, find everything I can to wiggle my way out of this one before my heart gets smashed into a million pieces.

This is pure panic. This is me being terrified because I don’t get terrified like this unless I think I could really have something with someone,  because I don’t let just anyone get near me.  I feel unglued and in over my head.

But I’m also smarter this time: this is not just about me fitting his standards, it’s also about me having demands and not settling for less. I’ve learned this the hard way. It’s about me knowing what I’m worth and not settling for less.

He texted again on Sunday nonetheless after I said hello and said to message him upon my return….I’ve conveniently run off to Bretagne for three weeks ( no joke, but it was pre-planned before I met him).

I told him this when he mentioned taking me to a Bastille Day party. 

¨It’s a bummer,¨ he said, ¨But it’s only three weeks.¨

With a bit of a heavy heart I left Paris when now I would really rather be watching the fireworks during his fête nationale.

To his text message he added:

¨Wanna see you again for sure.¨

Now for a three week cool my sh*t period where I hit the breaks, don’t go from 0 to 60 in 3.5 seconds, and find a way to set the pace of this game.

Let's hope the game resumes quickly upon my return in two weeks.